Alice Howland

Good morning. It's an honor to be here. The poet Elizabeth Bishoponce wrote: 'the Art of Losing isn't hard to master: so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.' I'm not a poet, I am a person living with Early Onset Alzheimer's, and as that person I find myself learning the art of losing every day. Losing my bearings, losing objects, losing sleep, but mostly losing memories…

I think I'll try to forget that just happened.

All my life I've accumulated memories - they've become, in a way, my most precious possessions. The night I met my husband, the first time I held my textbook in my hands. Having children, making friends, traveling the world. Everything I accumulated in life, everything I've worked so hard for - now all that is being ripped away. As you can imagine, or as you know, this is hell. But it gets worse. Who can take us seriously when we are so far from who we once were? Our strange behavior and fumbled sentences change other's perception of us and our perception of ourselves. We become ridiculous, incapable, comic. But this is not who we are, this is our disease. And like any disease it has a cause, it has a progression, and it could have a cure. My greatest wish is that my children, our children - the next generation - do not have to face what I am facing. But for the time being, I'm still alive. I know I'm alive. I have people I love dearly. I have things I want to do with my life. I rail against myself for not being able to remember things - but I still have moments in the day of pure happiness and joy. And please do not think that I am suffering. I am not suffering. I am struggling. Struggling to be part of things, to stay connected to whom I was once. So, 'live in the moment' I tell myself. It's really all I can do, live in the moment. And not beat myself up too much... and not beat myself up too much for mastering the art of losing. One thing I will try to hold onto though is the memory of speaking here today. It will go, I know it will. It may be gone by tomorrow. But it means so much to be talking here, today, like my old ambitious self who was so fascinated by communication. Thank you for this opportunity. It means the world to me. Thank you.

I used to be someone who knew a lot. No one asks for my opinion or advice anymore. I miss that. I used to be curious and independent and confident. I miss being sure of things. There's no peace in being unsure of everything all the time. I miss doing everything easily. I miss being a part of what's happening. I miss feeling wanted. I miss my life and my family.

I don't have to be fair. I'm your mother.

Hi, Alice. I'm you. And I have something very important to say to you. Huh… I guess you've reached that point when you can answer any of your questions. So this is the next logical step. I'm sure of it. Because what's happening to you, the Alzheimer's - you could see it as tragic. But your life has been anything but tragic. You've had a remarkable career, and a great marriage, and three beautiful children. All right. Listen to me, Alice. This is important. Make sure that you are alone and go to the bedroom. In your bedroom, there's a dresser with a blue lamp. Open the top drawer. In the back of the drawer, there's a bottle with pills in it. It says 'take all pills with water'. Now, there are a lot of pills in that bottle, but it's very important that you swallow them all, okay? And then, lie down and go to sleep. And don't tell anyone what you're doing, okay?

Hi, Alice. I'm you. And I have something very important to say to you. Huh… I guess you've reached that point when you can answer any of your questions. So this is the next logical step. I'm sure of it. Because what's happening to you, the Alzheimer's - you could see it as tragic. But your life has been anything but tragic. You've had a remarkable career, and a great marriage, and three beautiful children. All right. Listen to me, Alice. This is important. Make sure that you are alone and go to the bedroom. In your bedroom, there's a dresser with a blue lamp. Open the top drawer. In the back of the drawer, there's a bottle with pills in it. It says 'take all pills with water'. Now, there are a lot of pills in that bottle, but it's very important that you swallow them all, okay? And then, lie down and go to sleep. And don't tell anyone what you're doing, okay?

You may say that this falls into the great academic tradition of knowing more and more about less and less until we know everything about nothing.

When I was, um, a little girl, like, in second grade, my teacher told me butterflies don't live a long time. They live, like, a month. And I was so upset, and I went home, and I told my mother, and she said: "Yeah, but, you know, they have a nice life. They have a really beautiful life." So now it always makes me think about my mother's life, and my sister's life. And to a certain extent, you know, my own.

Damn it, why won't you take me seriously? Look, I KNOW what I'm feeling, and I… I feel, I feel like my brain is… is fucking DYING and everything I know and everything I worked for, it's all going…